Molasses
by DarKade
Summary: Whatever happened to dear, sweet Willow Danielle Rosenberg? Companion work to the ficlet Honey.


"Wanna be bad?" _She_ says, in that slow, flowing voice. Sickly sweet, treacle sweet, words that pour into you like dark molasses.

And again you are burning up inside, rolling and flowing, pouring down and down into where you both know you are headed.

_Wanna be bad?_

_She_ knows the answer because she _is_ you. She knows your secrets. Your fantasies, your lusts and mmmm, all those dirty, nasty thoughts you have about Xander and… (you swallow) Buffy and Faith and Cordelia and Amy, and (oh ) Drusilla and… and… and… you have never felt this exposed and open to a being.

The word rises in your mouth, sickly sweet, thick and heavy. You catch it and with all your strength push it down until you have it bottled up nice and deep.

Good Willow. You are good Willow and she is bad. But your lying ain't you? And good girl don't lie… so doesn't that make you bad Willow too?

You can feel her smile in your neck as she breathes. A smile. A smile from all the secret joys she lives and you just bury. Her breath is as sweet as her words to you, and you shiver at the thought of the fangs hidden behind those glossy red lips.

Fall finds you peeling away at the insides, Oz is distant and that's on you, because you are changed. She changed you, not with her fangs but with her words. You sent her far away, beyond the world but no matter how far it isn't enough. Because you remain. And you are her.

Buffy can't understand how you feel. She is the sun and you are the moon slipping into shadow. You should talk to her, you should… but the shame is a barrier you can't climb, the fear of her judgement- you have seen how she judged Faith for her fall, so how can you share that you are falling inside. You burn slow in your dreams… burn up… melt and moan. Yellow eyes and blood ruby lips that smile at your secrets.

Of course it stays within you. Outside you stay quiet, good Willow, good girl, pretending to focus on your studies, and lie about your grades as they slide slowly downwards . You spend hours in the showers, letting the warm water try to take the chill from your bones. Everything feels cold now. Your bed feels cold.

Oz is hot fleshed when he holds you but it is surface only, you want inside, you want what is within. You want to bite him, tear him up and apart, make him hate you make him fear you. He is so sweet and kind and… just like you pretend to be… bad Willow, dark Willow, poisonous and greedy Willow. He is poison too. His bite would make another type of monster out of you.

He isn't your kind of monster.

Veruca is his.

And you are delighted when you find them, naked, and stinking of blood and sex and trapped in that cell together in more ways than one. Delighted and terrified because you are free now. Free to be free, with no guilt (no soul means no guilt) and free to scream at him and hate him and his kind.

You roar and laugh and sob and shake at the sensations flowing through your weak little body. You want so much and all of it frightens you.

And Buffy melts into your arms as she sees what she thinks is your grief. She holds you until you stop shaking, not knowing that you luxuriate in her touch, that you are allowing your dark, wanton, lustful thoughts about her full reign over your imagination. You breathe in her sweet scent and want her, want her within you, pumping life through you. Even the idea makes you feel whole and warm. Nuzzled into her neck you understand now. When the sand of Anya's spell to find her necklacefell upon your flesh it found you instead.

You found you.

You know who you are. Finally, and fully.

Your friend walks you back to your dorm room, to keep you safe from the darkness. She has no idea it is already in you.

You smile as she waves goodbye, golden Buffy, your Sun, sets. She leaves you to look around your cold shell of a room. Who is the girl who lives here? Vile smelling jars and books on witchcraft; the darker stuff hidden behind the light, of course. Buffy has no idea who you really are, nobody does. But that doesn't matter. You know now.

So you slip out of your garish clothes and sit to put on a face of makeup (like hers), glossing your lips sticky and thick. And when you are done you take from your wardrobe the blackest clothes you own (did you buy them for this? Did you, Willow?) and as you brush out your hair you gaze at your reflection for the last time.

_Wanna be bad?_

The rains have spiced the sweet air with dying leaves and dust. She is waiting for you in the moonlight by the forest edge, perched upon a gravestone so old and worn that it no longer bears the name anymore. It could be anyone's grave. It could be yours.

"The stars said you would come." She says as you approach, "pretty green light brings a darker fire."

Drusilla catches your seeker spell and crushes it like a bug, her laugh child like and free.

You want to be free.

She stands, all smooth and elegant, this kill needs no chase. Her flesh and her fabric sugar white in the moons gaze. Her eyes honey, her hair black molasses, she comes to you, flows against you. Draws you into a kiss that robs you of any last taints of fear in you.

Your life flows into her as she moans against your throat. Flowing, pouring, melding and merging. And you melt into her strong, gentle arms as she cradles you to her.

Her blood is thick and tangy on your tongue, indescribably delicious and so utterly, completely necessary that everything falls away but your need to consume it. Thick and sweet and flowing like syrup down into you as your darkness pours free.

Rest in peace, Willow Danielle Rosenberg.

The Summer air in New Orleans is richly perfumed and pregnant with sweet delights. You catch the scent of dark rum and lust upon a girl's breathy laughter and hum to yourself through candy gloss lips.

And as the lightning silently flashes in a sucked dry sky, and the sound of jazz floats through the air, you whisper in a young girl's ear.

Sickly sweet, treacle sweet, words that pour into her like dark molasses.


End file.
